


push me over with no time to push back

by fiddleogold_againstyoursoul



Series: worth it (perfect) [2]
Category: Falsettos - Lapine/Finn
Genre: (again), Angst, M/M, Whizzer in Denial, Whizzer-Centric, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-06-10 21:04:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15300000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiddleogold_againstyoursoul/pseuds/fiddleogold_againstyoursoul
Summary: There's no tension tonight in anywhere but Whizzer, no spark to get going. Whizzer alone is ramrod stiff and desperately teetering. Whizzer alone is afraid and afraid to admit it.





	push me over with no time to push back

**Author's Note:**

> reposted with minor updates

The day's not dark yet, but Marvin's home. Early. Marvin, with his sad, tired eyes that turn to him briefly and that smile that charms, even if it's buried under what must be decades of uncertainty and grief. Whizzer tries not to think too much about it. Whizzer turns the fish from where's it's frying and watches its skin turn golden brown. Crackle of oil. Snap, pop. He wants to change like this, turn into something more palatable in adversity, but heat and pressure have only served as catalyst for the worst parts of him.

Three rooms away, Marvin starts the shower; their apartment is so small he can hear the water running from here. Whizzer turns off the stove and places the fish onto a platter, careful not to spill the oil. He's burnt himself before. He's hurt himself before, and not just with hot oil. His skin has come loose in boiling water, too. He's tried to let go of himself in places other than this cramped kitchen that smells of grease and mothballs, other than this tiny apartment where the walls are so thin they can hear every argument the neighbours have, other than this life he's trying to lead with a man who's trying to feed him enough to keep him in place. He's tried, and he's failed, or he's gotten cold feet. For all his bravado he's still afraid: of death? of dying? of something other than this?

So no, oil wouldn't kill him, but it would hurt. He's hurt -- people, himself -- enough. 

He wants to cry, or at least he'd want to cry if he were any man other than Whizzer Brown. He'd _be_ crying if he were any man other than Whizzer Brown. He busies his hands instead: checks the soup in its steaming pot, pulls the cold, sweet and sour sauce for the fish out of the refrigerator, chops up veggies. Decorates the plates when he's laid out everything all nice and neat, and oh, Whizzer Brown, are you turning into a housewife? Are you being  _domesticated?_ Are you bending till you become something that looks more presentable -- on a plate or in a home -- to Marvin? Have you fallen so hard you forgot who you really, truly are?

Marvin, oblivious to this storm of thoughts and questions, showers.

He's singing, Whizzer realises. Marvin's singing. And it's such a mournful little melody: soft, yet enough to carry through the paper walls, off-key every other note, and so jumbled up with the falling of the water Whizzer thinks it might pass for contemporary music in a few decades, might even sell out at some uptown hipster recording studio, draw fans in droves to their window. And the thought of it is funny, the thought of it makes him smile. The thought of Marvin leaning out over the balcony to wave to people cheering for him, his voice, his stupid little melody. He smiles so much he forgets to resent the warmth sitting in the bottom of his belly. He forgets to resent it, and it rolls over him in little licks, almost-happiness and almost-giddiness from that happiness until he remembers himself and curls his lips back just in time as Marvin steps into the kitchen, hair wet and dripping, towel wrapped around his shoulders. He drops his eyes to the baby blue boxers so he doesn't have to see Marvin's face, the tender look in his eyes that he can't bear to face. Smiles, and makes sure that smile is lecherous.

"My eyes are up here," Marvin says, clearly amused as he steps closer. Whizzer makes a show of tearing his eyes away. Marvin laughs. Whizzer resents that laugh. Resents it with a passion, with a flair. As all games in New York City are meant to be played. "But they're all for you, Whiz. Promise."

"I suppose you want me to say the same," he says. ("I love you so much it hurts. I love you so much it hurts to think about. I love you so much I could die, thinking about it.")

"That _is_ how reciprocation works," Marvin says.  _Reciprocation._ Who uses that word in regular conversation? Maybe Mendel told him to. Maybe Trina asked why they never had sex, back when they were still pretending to be happy and straight and in love. Maybe Marvin's perfect Jewish parents taught him to only love in return. Whizzer itches to fight him for it, see how far his thesaurus extends when his back is to the wall and Whizzer is all tooth and nail. See how far indoctrination can bend a man, and how much further Whizzer can. "What's for dinner?"

"Me."

"Sounds lovely." Marvin comes closer yet and Whizzer turns his face upwards, lets Marvin mouth at his neck. Teeth. Lips ghost past his skin. Stubble grazes it, briefly, and then Marvin is biting and sucking and Whizzer feels giddy for real, now, all that resentment curling in his gut turning into hunger. _Whose back is to the wall now?_ He puts a hand on Marvin's chest and the lips, teeth on his neck stop, falter, enough for him to push. _Shove._ Marvin takes a step backwards. He looks slightly miffed.

"Dinner will get cold," Whizzer explains.

"I think it has already."

Marvin gives him a pointed look before turning and walking into the living room-dining room-hall adjacent. Whizzer doesn't dignify that with a reply, just gathers his wits -- not enough, though, apparently -- and moves the food plate by plate to where he is. The resentment is back. Growing. Marvin sits at the table, eyes never leaving him as he comes and goes. Marvin might reach out, and Whizzer would spill the soup all over the floor, say  _sorry, you scared me,_ and they'd both start shouting at each other for something unrelated and the wheel would spin again. Marvin might call to him, and he might not answer, and they might not eat, just sit and look at each other over opposite ends of the table for the whole night. Their fighting can be deadly, can be petty, can be over nothing at all. They fight because it's better than talking: about themselves, about their days, about the maybe-resentment-but-entirely-plausibly-something-else sitting in both of their chests when they see each other smile.

They don't fight now, though. Whizzer lays all the plates down, uninterrupted.

"Should we pray?" he asks, and it's a question that makes Marvin flinch. It's been a long time since Whizzer Brown's been at Temple, too long to remember, but Marvin? Marvin used to attend every week. Bring his son and wife, his tight-knit, happy, wonderful family. Marvin, who says God's name in his sleep and when Whizzer has his mouth on him. Marvin, the queer, Marvin, the newly Godless, Marvin, looking at Whizzer as if he's God. Whizzer has no answers. Whizzer has no faith, in himself, in the world. In this relationship. This  _game_ they've both been letting run on for far too long.

"We don't pray before meals."

"I'm a bad Jew," he says, scraping the chair as he sits. Marvin hates the sound. Marvin also hates the sound of cutlery, so he makes sure his chime as he shifts his plate. Marvin knows what he's doing. Marvin looks at him like he hung the stars and moon but killed his whole family on the way, and Whizzer doesn't know what to make of it.

"You're not a bad lover."

"Oh, that, I'm sure."

They share a faint smile. There's no tension tonight in anywhere but Whizzer, no spark to get going. Whizzer alone is ramrod stiff and desperately teetering. Whizzer alone is afraid and afraid to admit it.

"How was your day?" Marvin asks, cutting up the fish. Whizzer should have done that. Whizzer should have cut everything up so it looks more presentable, palatable, appetising. Whizzer should have dressed up like he meant to be kept by a rich, handsome man for the rest of his life. Whizzer shrugs. He can't say  _lonely_ without having to admit he misses Marvin when he's away. He can't say  _productive_ without having to conform further to the subservient, pleasant role he's been moulded to match. He can't say  _different_ without having to remember what it used to be like: unattached to Marvin, away from this tiny, shitty apartment, fucking rich, handsome men in hotel rooms, and never having to touch a stove a day in his life.

 _(Better,_ he doesn't say, either. Even though really, would it be a lie?)

"I saw our hot neighbour today," he says, instead of all those other things. He says it because he can predict what will happen. Sure enough, Marvin's nostrils flare. Marvin's ears prick up. Marvin's attention, in full, on him, and that fire in his gut blazes brighter. "He was cooling off from a fight with his wife, so he offered me a smoke and asked me about myself." He needs to do this. Needs to. Before the glamour can crack. Before he says something that will ruin him.

"What did you say?"

Marvin tries to sound disinterested. Marvin fails. Whizzer smiles, triumphant: hook, line, and sinker. 

"He asked where I was from. Who we were. _What_ we were."

"What did you say?" Marvin asks again. 

"He had this look in his eye. It was dreadfully sexy, Marvin, really --"

"Whizzer," Marvin says, and it's all soft and angry and terrible. 

"I thought I might've kissed him."

"You didn't."

"No," he says. There are spots of colour in Marvin's cheeks. He commits them to memory. "Should I have? That's what I'm wondering now. Maybe he would've kissed me back, harder. He was looking so smart today, had a jacket on the colour of mousse --" 

"Whizzer," Marvin says again. This time a warning.  _Marvin,_ he wants to say back.  _Marvin, Marvin, Marvin._

"I think I have a  _thing_ for married men. Maybe he'd treat me better."

Marvin stands up, and Whizzer holds his ground. Stares right back. Lips curled back, fire burning wildly. He knows where this night will end: in bed, under Marvin, nail-marks on their backs, bruises where they hit the wall. "This is all very nice," Marvin says, Marvin,  Marvin, Marvin. "This is all very  _neat,_ Whizzer."  _Marvin,_  he thinks.The name like a bell. Whizzer snarls, Whizzer bares his teeth, Whizzer will never bare his soul to Marvin, Marvin, Marvin. "Do you make a habit of breaking up homes?"

Low blow.

He can blow lower.

"Only those that are already breaking up on their own," he says, and Marvin lunges across the table; he meets him halfway and their hands are suddenly in each other's clothes, crumpling, fingers on his hips, death grip, hot breath on his neck and  _teeth._ Teeth. He grunts and grabs Marvin by the neck, ignoring the hiss of pain when his nails scrape too fast and too far. His head, heart pounds. Marvin (Marvin, Marvin) backs him into a wall and it hurts. He kicks, fights, struggles where he can and he's stronger, taller, faster than Marvin, who's about fifteen years into his expired gym membership and has the belly of an avid beer drinker. He wins (he wins!) but he falters too long and Marvin regains his breath, knocks him back in place again.  _Thud._ The neighbours must hear this.  _Thud,_ as he pries himself free just to be shoved back again.  _Thud._ This could go on forever. He relaxes, and Marvin comes up close, eyes predatory. Yet there's a vulnerability in that hunger. Whizzer smirks and lets his hands slip downwards, cups through the boxer shorts. He doesn't miss the way Marvin's eyelashes flutter.

He doesn't miss  _anything._

"Whizzer wins, Whizzer wins, Whizzer wins," he sings, tempting fate, or maybe just tempting Marvin (Marvin, Marvin).

"You're lucky you're so pretty," Marvin says, and then he kisses him, and Whizzer doesn't fight anymore. At least, not physically. At least, not to get away. They move through the hallway, pressing their lips together and then, when it feels like the world might break if they don't get closer, their bodies, and then, when it feels like every inch between them aches to be filled, they take to do exactly that. Whizzer lets go of himself, falls. Against the wall, against the door, into the bedroom, into bed, apart from Marvin, together again, in love with Marvin. Into denial. He drags his fingers through Marvin's tangle of wet hair, yanks till Good Jewish Divorcee is wide-eyed and alert, a little ways away but in no way  _enough_ away. He wants to cry again. He doesn't, of course; he moans filthily and works his hips, does what he knows best.

(He's afraid to do much else.)

Because as much as he is risk-taker, brazen, he thinks ahead. He draws his cards one by one --  _this,_ the softness to Marvin's face when he catches him unawares;  _this,_ the way Marvin's hands roam on his body, like he's the most interesting, beautiful man in the world;  _this,_ the gut-twisting fear buried deep when he remembers he's supposed to be angry, resentful, bitter, unfulfilled;  _this, this, this, this,_ all the little idiosyncrasies and dysfunctions that he hates and come with the package of  _Marvin --_ and leaves his hand unknown. He learns the ropes before doing the walk. He may take hours to find his footing, but when he's on there, up high, he's untouchable. Inscrutable. Infallible. At least, he's supposed to be. At least, nobody knows any better. At least, nobody's seen him undone like this, this, this: Marvin running his hands through his hair, pulling where he pushes, terribly beautiful ache, heat trapped between their bodies, that choking of grief again.

Whizzer falls, but he doesn't cry.

Marvin cries enough for both of them. Marvin cries, during sex and after it, and Whizzer presses his face into that broad, warm chest and breathes. The shudders rock him, too; they're holding each other. He doesn't know the whole reason Marvin is crying. Marvin doesn't know the whole reason Whizzer is silent, and wishing desperately he could cry just as hard. He doesn't. He can't. He couldn't. He wouldn't allow himself to.

"Love me," Marvin whispers. "Love me, please."

He almost, almost falls into the trap of  _yes._

"Somebody's got to clear the dinner table," he says instead, and feels something else, something intangible, something unspoken, fall at their feet and break as he clambers out of bed and towards the door. 

**Author's Note:**

> another 3am thing i edited at 10pm the next day i'm sorry ?? this draft was titled "sad, gay dinner" because that's the typical dinner i have haha i'm so lonely (and sad, and gay; i digress)
> 
> thank you for the kind words and kudos on the previous fic, they mean a lot and make my heart do an uwu.  
> the last one was kind of angsty too? but hopeful at the end, & this one is a little less so: sorry, but you know it gets better. (and then worse, very quickly.) i love falsettos fans + whizzer/marvin + writing these a whole lot so i look forward to posting more if you guys would read them!


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